Battle Honours: Ordo Exterminatus
by xiao32615987
Summary: Corruption is rife within the vast realm of the Imperium but there is one faction above the corruption and strife, to which all traitors must answer. For a better idea of the story see the first 'intro' chapter.
1. Intro

_This is my first Warhammer 40k fanfic. I'll keep writing this only if I receive a sufficient number of reviews._

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Battle Honours: Ordo Exterminatus by xiao32615987

_Field stripping a Lasgun is never an easy task. Field stripping a Lasgun in a battle situation is harder, but not impossible. Field stripping a Lasgun in a battle situation whilst directly under enemy fire is every soldier's worst nightmare; but achievable. Field stripping a Lasgun in a battle situation, whilst directly under enemy fire and only having one arm… now you get the picture._

SNAFU: Situation normal, all f****d up; yeah, that just about described it. Of course, he'd been in worse situations than this; but for the guardsmen around him, green as a newborn Ork; this was probably their very definition of hell.

The Lasgun was one of the most reliable pieces of technology in an Imperial Guardsman's armoury; but even it went wrong sometimes; and when it did, it was a complicated procedure to get it right again. It was the unfortunate man before him who was faced with this task. Having his arm blasted off by a grenade made things harder; yet he still went about the task resolutely, albeit slowly.

He wondered what it was that drove these ordinary men to such extraordinary feats of… was it bravery? It certainly wasn't training; but could it be courage? Faith in the Immortal Emperor of Mankind? Or was it simply a primitive and desperate desire to survive which propelled this soldier's one good hand as it opened the casing of the weapon?

Whatever it was that pushed these men, he didn't know it. To him; courage was his duty, the Emperor his guidance; and training and battle merged into the same thing. He had forgotten what it was to be truly human a long time ago, longer than that one-armed man could even imagine; for he was a Space Marine, an enhanced human, a faithful servant of the Immortal Emperor. He was proud to carry the esteemed title of Brother-Sergeant Tarchus of the Imperial Fists, one of the most loyal and elite of all of the Chapters.

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_Yeah, this is just a very short intro, that's why I included the first chapter as well. _


	2. Chapter 1

As fire and flames scorched the sky a deep red; shells flew overhead; gunfire and explosions filled the air with sound and the screams of men and foul xeno alike tortured his eardrums; Tarchus and his squad stood resolute. They had seen this all before. On thousands of battlefields over hundreds of worlds, they had stood firm against the foulest of the enemies of the Imperium; and triumphed. Today was just another battlefield on another world; and it would become another victory, else the Space Marines fall in battle.

Tarchus' visor gave him a clear view over everything; the huddled guardsmen, the impacts of shells; and even the horde of xenos just on the horizon. Undetectable with the normal eye; they stood poised, ready to wipe clear the human defenders in a tide of green… Orks. Even at this range, Tarchus' visor allowed him to identify them easily; from the huge pillars of dust and fumes coming from their patched together vehicles to the formations of their crazed bikers, ready to risk life and limb just at the chance of getting into the fight first.

Tarchus quickly evaluated his own situation. He had six marines left; and there were about twenty guardsmen, thirty perhaps if some of the wounded were still able to fight. The guardsmen packed a grenade launcher and a heavy bolter; whilst Tarchus had available one heavy bolter and one meltagun. It wasn't much, but it would have to do; if the rest of the line could hold out as well, then they could pull this off.

"Sergeant!" Tarchus called out; hoping to the Emperor that that foolish guardsman had managed not to get himself killed.

A panting from behind told him all that he needed to know; as the guard sergeant approached, Lasgun slung across his back and a chainsword in one hand.

"Sir?" The sergeant asked.

"Gather what spare weapons you have and hand them out to the wounded; everyone that can fight, must fight."

"Sir!?"

"Everyone must do their duty for the emperor, even if it means death."

"But if it's so bad, we should fall back; shouldn't we sir?" The small man sounded worried; fear was evident in his voice.

Tarchus turned to face the guardsman, who actually took a step back as the giant in yellow armour gazed down upon him. To Tarchus, inspiring such fear was a good thing; it helped to keep questioning guardsmen in line. He held his holy boltgun confidently in one hand, something which took many years to learn and master, and pointed it straight at the sergeant.

"Cowardice is treason, treason is punishable by death. Do you understand?" Tarchus spoke in a voice that was little more than a growl; yet it came through with perfect clarity, even over the noise of the ensuing battle.

"Yessir." The Sergeant said quickly, gazing in terror at the huge barrel pointed at his head; held by the yellow-armoured warrior.

"Go." Tarchus said, lowering his weapon; "Ready your men."

The sergeant nodded quickly and seemed glad at the chance to run somewhere away from the marine. Tarchus watched him go; climbing with surprising agility over the rubble which was all that remained of their previous fortifications. He could remember what this building had looked like before this chaos had started; tall and grand; it was one of the most impressive buildings on the planet. It had intricate carvings on its walls; from images of the Emperor to images of the Imperial Guard in glorious battle; and prayers of faith were scrawled over its every surface. Those prayers had become far more poignant now, when the planet had so suddenly erupted into war; and more recent inscriptions could be seen, left by the Planetary Defence Force as they had held their positions against the oncoming tide. It was only thanks to the PDF that the relieving forces had managed to land on the planet; through the spaceport, defended at the cost of many lives.

"Sergeant?"

The words stirred Tarchus from his thoughts; the voice came not from around him; but over the vox system which linked him with the other Imperial Fists in the area.

"Tarchus here, what is it?" He responded; he did not recognise the voice talking to him; which was unusual.

"This is Brother Miras," The voice responded, identifying itself; it sounded slightly nervous. "I'm with squad Ferox; we're about half a click south of your position. Requesting your presence; there's something down here you ought to see."

"On my way."

[*]

For Tarchus, it was no time at all before he reached the spot where there were more Guardsmen and a group of yellow shapes he'd spotted from a distance. The men down here were in just as bad a shape as those he had just come from; many corpses lay across the floor; the wounded had been moved to one side where a single, harried looking, medic was rushing from one to the next.

The scenery around was much the same; bombed out buildings. They were much smaller, as they marked the very edge of the devastated city; but they were also far more intact than the hardened fortification Tarchus himself had come from. Though this might be taken as a sign of encouragement; the shelling hadn't been as hard here; Tarchus didn't take it as one as he saw that there were more than just human corpses lining the road, Ork bodies also littered the area; they had thrown themselves at the defenders in such numbers as to actually succeed in breaking through, such was the Orkish way of war.

A great roar filled the area; as some machine powered up. The nearby Guardsmen looked up hopefully; but their faces fell again as the machine coughed, spluttered and fell silent. Taking a few more steps, Tarchus saw what had roared. It was a great war machine, one which lay wounded in an adjacent courtyard; and though the Techpriest and its crew tried their best, Tarchus could see that the Leman Russ would never drive again; its tracks had been decimated by some strange weapon. There was some hope, however, if the engine would run again; enough power could be generated to operate the beast's weapons. With that, they could unleash a hail a firepower which would make all but the most foolish hit the nearest cover.

"Brother Sergeant," Said a voice from behind him; it was Miras.

"Brother Miras." Tarchus said respectfully; he was not familiar with this marine. "What was it that you called be here for?"

"It's this way sir, if you don't mind."

Tarchus waved his hand, indicating that Miras should lead the way. Miras set off at a quick pace; leading the Sergeant through several more positions, each bristling with guns and Guardsmen, before they finally reached a small bunker. It was set back from the defences slightly; and Tarchus noted immediately the number of shell impacts that marred its surface; the most interesting thing about this bunker though was the fact that a large portion of its roof was missing.

They entered easily; the door had been all but removed from its hinges; and were greeted by a horrific sight. The room inside had been completely devastated; the remains of consoles and a vox-caster confirmed that this building had been a command post. Tarchus saw immediately the mess of bodies; guardsmen strewn across the floor with parts missing, burnt and twisted; most were completely unidentifiable, save for the officer who was only noticeable by the presence of a bolt pistol in his right hand. But what was the most horrific part of the scene were the corpses which were not human; huge bodies which lay in thick yellow armour… the command squad.

They had been completely obliterated; their armour torn through with ease and black scorched wounds on their arms, legs and torso; what could have caused such devastation? Looking around quickly, Tarchus found the pole which would have held the Company Banner; it was empty, save for ashes lying on the floor around it. As if to complete such a hurtful scene; Tarchus noticed that not one of the marines' weapons had been fired, there were no empty bolt casings in the bunker; some of them were still holstered. These marines had died without a chance to fight.

"The Captain?" Tarchus growled. He had never felt so bitter; full of contempt and hate at those who had done this as well as shame. The whole Company would be filled with the same shame should they learn of what had happened to their Brothers; some of the Chapter's finest; killed without a fight.

"There." Miras responded; pointing into a corner; but Tarchus didn't need to look, he'd already seen it. "Do you see what happened?"

Tarchus did. He had seen it so many times before; one giant shell had cracked the bunker apart and blasted away those inside, even a green Guardsmen could've spotted it. He told Miras this, putting as much force and contempt into his words as he could.

"Look again." Miras responded simply.

Tarchus was surprised at this statement; and slightly angered by this lower ranking Marine giving him instructions. Nevertheless, it was best to be certain. He checked around again.

The ceiling had been blasted apart by the force of the explosion and there were many marks on the walls, along with a large black one that covered the floor. The consoles and machines inside the room had been torn apart and melted- wait, melted? Tarchus checked again; black marks on the floor and walls, scorched corpses and melted machines. All of these were consistent with only one thing.

"A plasma weapon." Tarchus growled; Miras nodded in confirmation. Tarchus had fought the Orks many times and he knew very well that even the most technologically advanced tribes had nothing close to a plasma weapon of this power in their armoury. Even if they were lucky to have any kind of plasma weapon in their grasp, it was usually stolen from the Imperial Guard; and they didn't carry portable weapons which could cause this level of damage.

"There's one more thing." Miras said, "Have you spotted it, sir?"

"Just say it, marine."

"Nothing penetrated the walls or roof of this bunker. The blast came from the inside."

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_Okay; if you like it, write a review, leave a comment or anything really. I'll only keep updating this if I receive enough reviews after each new chapter; so keep reviewing the new chapters as they come out, so I can see what people think of various bits._


	3. Chapter 2

_Thanks for the reviews; please keep them coming, especially on new chapters as I write them (I want to know what you think). As a note for 'awilla the hun': Yes, Tarchus growls a lot, that's just what he does, and what he's always done; but of course you didn't know him before now._

_Anyway, this chapter._

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"Someone carried that charge in here." Tarchus muttered to himself, taking great care not to speak down the vox link; the news that there could have been treachery was not one to share with the others, not right now anyway.

"Miras!" He called, expecting to hear the strangely calm voice which he had come to recognise as belonging to the marine; but instead, there was silence.

Tarchus span on the spot; the thick, bulky power armour belied the speed with which he could move. By the time he was facing the door his bolter was raised to his shoulder; the trigger already pulled back halfway, such that he could've fired a shot at a moment's notice, were there anything to shoot. The doorway was empty, there was no Miras and no one else there either; a quick scan around the bunker showed it to be empty as well, such a thing as a space marine standing in yellow armour should have been obvious enough.

"Miras!" Tarchus barked; this time calling his command over the vox system as well. He waited… nothing. "Brother Miras, report in immediately." The quiet crackling of static was all that greeted his ears; the static in itself was unusual, but Tarchus knew it had something to do with the atmosphere of this planet which interfered with vox signals. Something in his memory recalled a method of removing said static, but he pushed it to the back of his mind; the static was unusual, but a marine not answering a call was even more so; Tarchus' experience told him that marines who refused to answer were either dead or incapacitated, most often the former.

"Squad Ferox, this is Sergeant Tarchus, come in." He moved his way through the chain of command; well, what was left of it; just as the Codex Astartes demanded.

"Squad Ferox here sir," A deep, grumbling voice answered; one which Tarchus knew well.

"Arillus; glad to see you're alive." Tarchus responded; and though he spoke the truth, his voice never changed from its commanding tone. "Where is Brother Miras?"

"You know it'll take more that a horde of Speed Freeks to kill me." Arillus said; his voice confident and cocky. "And who's Miras; a friend of yours?"

"Hardly; he was leading your squad and now he's disappeared."

"I know every Marine in this company by name; and trust me, not a one is called Miras. Are you alright? You didn't hit your head did you?" There was clear concern evident in his voice.

"I'm fine," Tarchus lied; though for the first time in many decades he felt a trickle of fear; fear of the unknown. He had encountered many things since he had successfully joined the chapter; from the most hideous of xenos, to the strangest acts of psychic sorcery and even demons; but never before had he experienced something which had caused him to doubt his own mind, had he really seen Miras?

He smacked the side of his helmet brutally hard, grateful of the pain that shot through his jaw, it cleared his mind. He must focus on the battle, wandering thoughts were likely to get them all killed.

"Sergeant Tarchus." Another voice from down the vox, another Marine he didn't recognise, "The Orks are beginning to move."

Something clicked inside his mind and he went instantly into his battle mode; all other thoughts were swept aside now and his focus became absolute, "All squads take you positions; load weapons and ready to fire upon the enemy." His voice was steady, unwavering and always commanded absolute respect; this is why he was elevated to the position of Sergeant.

A series of confirmations called to him from various squads and impromptu units formed from remnants; he listened with only half his mind however, as the other half had been caught by the glint of something in the corner.

Moving over to investigate he found the corpse of what had once been this company's Captain; a likeable and intelligent man, and a more than competent leader; not that Tarchus had had much time to get to know him. The captain wore the usual Yellow armour of the Imperial Fists, including the red outlines on the shoulder pads; what was different however, was what was on his left hand. The Captain's left arm was almost completely severed, probably from some large piece of shrapnel form the explosion, but the gauntlet was intact. The gauntlet was jet black and considerably larger than his other, giving him an oddly lopsided appearance, and upon the back of the hand there was embossed a green laurel wreath. Tarchus knew at once that this was a power fist, one of the most deadly melee weapons in the Astartes armoury, and this one was a particularly finely crafted example; and, despite being almost separated from the rest of the power armour, it still crackled with fierce and deadly energies.

[*]

"It was delivered successfully? Excellent." A smooth, calm voice spoke from the shadows; there were still some, even though the room was in almost complete darkness, the reinforced lights set into the dull metal walls casting only a dim light over its contents. Little was visible, but there was at least a large, curved desk and a tall chair in which the owner of the voice was sitting.

The voice paused momentarily, as though listening, before it continued; "All of them? Good, that puts that little problem out of the way. I think-" He broke off, just for a moment, "Another? Explain."

The owner of the voice listened intently, clearly taking part in a conversation; though the other person, (or was it people?) he was talking to could not be seen nor heard.

"Now, now. We can't be having that." The voice betrayed a slight hint of amusement, "Survival is not an option; we must proceed to correct that. And what of the Orks?" It sighed in another one of its pauses and it listened to the unheard person.

"Don't worry." It continued, "I'll be sure to deal with both of them, you can trust me on that." And he laughed loud, a laugh that would have been merry; were it not for the sinister hiss which was contained within it.

[*]

Brother Magnus awoke, his mind reeling from what he had just witnessed; he quickly rearranged his thoughts, now was the worst time to drop his mental defences. The candles around him flickered slightly; he knew it was not usual and against the fire safety regulations, but he found that they helped him to meditate.

Today, his meditations had taken him far away, and although that was not unusual, he always feared the amount it exposed his mind to. He looked toward the porthole; he was unlucky enough to have a room right next to the hull, perhaps the least secure place on this ship. The thick shield over it was still closed, which meant that they were still powering through the Warp; the most dangerous place for a psyker to lose his concentration, where hordes of foul demons waited to prey upon his soul.

Swiftly thanking the Emperor and his own training for protecting him on this occasion, he rose to his feet; it would not look good for an Epistolary of his experience to seem disturbed by such a close encounter, instead he focused on trying to remember the vision. He tried to recall the exact details of his vision, but it was impossible; the only thing he could remember was the feeling of incredible anger and familiarity with which it had ended. He had his suspicions about what that might mean; but the Codex did not teach them to simply go on vague suspicions. He reached for a drawer; the Emperor's Tarot would clarify this situation.

It took several minutes before he was certain that the drawing of the cards was complete; there were many small patterns and complications lain out on the floor before him, but the overall message of the pattern was absolutely clear… Traitor.

Magnus nodded the resigned nod of one who knows what he must do; but did not like it; and reached for the button upon the wall which granted access to the ship's internal vox system. It was time for a course change.


	4. Chapter 3

_To Slaashyish: In my stories I don't like to leave any mysteries unexplained; everything happens for a reason._

_Anyway, after a long wait, the next chapter. To my surprise, this is actually the longest chapter to date. Heh, and I though it was short._

* * *

The horde of Orks approached quickly; mounting an assortment of rough vehicles, all built such that the owners could be the first to get into the fray. As they charged, the passengers hurled insults, stones and sometimes even dung at any other nearby wartrukk that threatened to take the lead in this mad race. They advanced in a tide, like orks always did; but this time it was a tide of steel, thousands of tonnes pouring over the old and broken city ramparts that once marked the battle line, when the city was still whole. A tide of muscled green monsters was frightening, armed with vast and brutal looking cleavers and axes, but this time it was enhanced by the solid wall of vehicles; a man could hope to stand against a beast of flesh but one of metal would simply flatten the man, rolling over his corpse with the drivers barely aware that they had hit anything at all.

Tarchus watched them approach. Standing in the street by the former command post, he simply stood and watched. The men of the Imperial Guard crouched, hid, concealed themselves in defensive positions; behind barriers hastily erected from rubble and flakboards they held themselves, ready to unleash their own tide upon the Orks; a tide of lead and lasfire.

He flexed the fingers of his new power fist, revelling in the sensation of cracking energies running through the whole weapon. It spoke of such unstoppable power, and he knew from experience that not even the most powerful armour could halt its crushing grip. He enjoyed the stark contrast of the jet black against his yellow armour, bright were it not for weeks' worth of dirt and scratches marring its surface; not that that mattered much, Tarchus knew that such markings merely indicated battle experience. His new weapon filled him with a steely determination; nothing, not even the foulest of demons could break his resolution now, he would stand and fight these vile creatures to their end or his.

As the horde entered weapons range, he gave the order; "FIRE!"

At once the air around him was filled with the noise of weapons fire, ranging from the incessant rattle of lasguns to the rhythmic pounding of a nearby autocannon and the roaring blasts of holy boltguns as they fired bursts of explosive death towards the greenskins.

A wall of steel and flesh met a wall of fire and the carnage was impressive; many orks fell as rounds blasted through them, their open topped vehicles providing the passengers with little protection. The lightly armoured vehicles themselves also fared badly as heavy rounds punctured their skins and damaged the essential parts; a few exploded in fireballs as fuel and ammunition were ignited by the heat of lascannon blasts; many span off course, colliding with nearby vehicles and smashing them into piles of hot, twisted metal. And one, Tarchus saw, took a heavy hit directly to the front causing the back to leap into the air and the whole wartrukk to flip end over end, scattering its passengers across the barren wasteland.

Something prodded at Tarchus from the back of his mind, calling for his attention; that place had not always been so empty, it seemed to say. In fact, it had once been somewhere fairly special.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. Focus on the here and now; let the future sort itself out… concentrate on getting past the moment, the time to worry about the future will come later… These two phrases he had been told; though he did not remember who by, he knew that it was someone important and that he had lived by them. He knew he had to do that now, he couldn't let something in his subconscious control his conscious mind, his training told him that; so he pushed the thoughts away.

They fought back.

He became oblivious to the situation around him, everything was seen and heard but nothing was taken in. The shouts, the explosions, the rattle of gunfire, the yellow streaks that flew at him as the orks returned fire; nothing meant a thing to the sergeant as another battle was raged inside his own mind. He focused everything he could on trying to regain control, the thoughts that invaded his mind were strong and would not bend to his will easily, yet he could feel that they were his own.

The fight became locked as neither side would give way, but Tarchus still could not bring himself back to the moment. The sheer mental effort just to hold this invasion was costing him his energy and he knew that if he didn't regain control soon, even if he did regain control, he would be too exhausted to fight. The idea filled him with a steely resolve and he gathered all of his mental power for one last push.

BANG!

An explosion seemed to go off in his mind as something smashed into his forehead; pain receptors suddenly screamed out and filled his head with a cacophony of unbearable noise. The force of the impact had thrown his head back violently, and more pain from his neck joined the screams from his head; and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't shut the noise off, his mental strength was diminishing. His eyes briefly registered his helmet's flickering heads up display flashing alerts at him; just before he slid into darkness.

[*]

"Hello father." A young boy said; and although his voice was high, it spoke with the confidence of one much older.

The boy stood in a garden, one which had been beautifully arranged with long rows of hedges running alongside carefully lain flagstone paths. The grass was green and lush and the bushes were healthy and covered in many large red berries, shining in the midday sun which hung high almost directly over the spot where the boy stood.

"I'm sorry I haven't been to see you in a while, it's been a little hectic recently." The boy continued; despite the outward confidence the voice still seemed a little unsure, he was still a child after all.

The only answer to the boy's comment was the slight rustle of leaves as the tree's branches moved in an unfelt breeze. The trees were tall with long, thin branches which were coated with many broad leaves; and multicoloured blossom hung from the thinner branches, creating a colourful spectacle which wowed many visitors. Some of the trees formed a square shape around where the boy stood, a clear area in the centre of it all where several of the paths met and a large marble plinth stood before the boy.

It was only this that the boy had eyes for, as he knew the trees and grass and bushes well enough for them to have lost their wonder. The marble plinth was much taller than him, it was taller even than any fully grown man; and upon it was a great bronze statue of a single figure, a man in a military uniform who stood proudly on top of the corpse of a fearsome looking alien creature with large, pointed teeth and scythe-like talons; the man held a Lasgun in one hand and a hand grenade in the other and gazed up to the sky as though in prayer. The marble plinth below him held a plaque, which read:

"_The 4th, 5th, and 6th Macedonian Rifles Regiments. This is dedicated to all those soldiers who lost their lives in the loyal defence of the Imperium."_

"I've been thinking about it for a while now and I've decided." The boy said; his comments aimed at the statue. "I want to follow in your footsteps. I want to join whilst I have the chance." The boy's voice wavered a little as he said it, and he paused; seemingly waiting for a response.

He was a young boy, no older than nine;but he seemed more mature than someone his age should be. He was not particularly tall or strongly built, but mentally he was like a bunker; strong in a way that only a difficult childhood could bring. The difficulties had not made him look rough or crude, he had fair blonde hair and bright blue eyes which held an intelligent, if cold, glint.

"It's not that the PDF isn't good enough!" The boy cried out, as though someone had just presented and objection to his idea. "It's just that I want to go out and see other places; all the other planets in the Imperium that people keep telling me about. I want to see them and whilst the Praetorians are here I've got the chance, one of the officers said he'd take me with them-"

The boy stopped his pleas quite suddenly, and fell silent. He glanced to one side, around the plinth. Not far in the distance were the city ramparts; constructed from a mixture of earth and plasteel, with flakboards on the top to protect anyone patrolling the battlements. They had been built in a hurry; prepared for a battle which would never happen, the Praetorians had seen to that. When they had paraded through the city to receive honours from the Governor they had looked magnificent; marching in clean red uniforms with shining and well-maintained weapons. It was then that the boy, along with many other young men had decided that the Imperial Guard was the right choice to make, and nothing would dissuade them.

"I'll do whatever I need to for the Imperium father, just like you did. So… goodbye." The boy then held the first two fingers of his right hand together, kissed them, and pressed them against a single name upon the list of the dead. The name of '_Colonel Venium Tarchus_'.

[*]

He had brought them so much courage; that single Space Marine who had barked orders at them and forced them to keep fighting even though they knew that they had already lost. That giant man in his dirty yellow armour, wielding a weapon which most normal men would have difficulty even lifting; his own indomitable faith and courage had kept the guardsmen standing and fighting where even a commissar would have difficulty keeping order.

And he had fallen.

They had all seen it happen, even though it took no time at all. A single, large round from one of the ork's heavy machine guns had impacted with the front of the sergeant's helmet, causing sparks to fly as the two metals rubbed against each other. And then the Space Marine had simply crumpled, his body collapsing to the floor; the armour clanging against the rocks and debris.

He had given them such hope and courage. The way he had stood there, completely unmoving as the horde of orks had charged towards them; he had seemed completely fearless, and although they all knew that they were going to die, he had given them the courage to stand and fight. But now he was gone and the orks were still there.

Their courage broke.

[*]

"Too easy." The smooth, calm voice spoke; this time with a hint of dismissal; before once again erupting into a loud and sinister laugh which echoed off the cold metal walls of the darkened room.

* * *

_I know it has been fairly slow so far; but things should start to kick-off in the next chapter (I hope so anyway, depends how long it ends up being)._


	5. Chapter 4

_Yes, the 'creepy voice' at the end of the last chapter was supposed to be the same one heard in the chapter before that (the one in the darkened room) but perhaps I didn't make that obvious enough, maybe I shall modify it slightly._

_But anyway, a new chapter._

* * *

One soldier fled. Dropping his lasgun, he abandoned his position at the barricades and ran from the unceasing horde of green that ploughed straight for them. The others made to follow him, driven by their own fear of staying in this hell and their own desire to survive.

What seemed like an explosion echoed around the rubble-filled street; and every man froze in his tracks, all apart from one. The one who had ran seemed to disappear into a red cloud; a cloud of blood blasted out from the soldier's torso which speckled the ground with spots of red as it settled. The guardsman seemed to take an age to fall to the floor; twisting round as he did so, revealing an expression of pure shock upon his face, one which was surely a result of the gaping hole were his stomach should have been.

The remainder found themselves unable to move, every thought of the approaching Orks was pushed from their minds by sheer terror as a deep growl filled their ears. It was not loud, having been almost drowned out by the noise of the battle, but it penetrated their minds nonetheless. It was unmistakeable and all eyes looked towards the point where the 'dead' giant rose.

[*]

Tarchus emitted an angry growl as he pushed himself into a sitting position, his heads-up display flickered with several warning messages, all of which he quickly dismissed just as easily as he had dismissed the pain of the impact to his skull, he knew that it was not serious. He instantly registered the fact that all of the guardsmen before him were staring straight at him, the faces of all were easy to read; they were ready to run.

Tarchus moved to his feet in such a surprising display of agility that several of the guardsmen started.

"Stand your ground." He commanded, stressing each word; and order which was instantly obeyed as the men turned back and the air was filled with the sound of gunfire once more.

Taking a quick glance around, Tarchus saw the coward he had shot; for all cowards were traitors and all traitors were shot. It was something he had learned many long decades ago, when he was still young and still human. He knew now that the vision that had interrupted his mind had been a long-forgotten memory of his own past, something which meant little to him now. Though he knew why this planet had felt so familiar, the terrain over which the greenskins poured was where he used to pray and he was sure that somewhere out there he would find the remains of that memorial at which he had once stood.

But now it was wasteland; pitted with shell craters, drenched in blood and covered in corpses. The city was in ruins, the remains of the civilian population evacuated to the southern continent long ago, at least those that had not been conscripted or killed during the initial attacks. Despite the scars on its landscape, Tarchus felt a need to protect it, a loyalty to the place he had once called home and he knew that he would crush those who stood in his way.

The first of the wartrukks slid to a halt, mere paces from the defensive barricade, and wave after wave of Ork leapt from their backs; hulking green monsters firing large calibre pistols and waving huge cleavers and axes which they wielded in a single hand. The Orks leapt down upon the Guardsmen who took bravely to the fight with fixed bayonets, heavy weapon crews abandoning their guns in order to fight in hand-to-hand, even though they were outnumbered and it would take many bayonet wounds to down a single Ork, they stood and fought. Tarchus took a moment to say a short prayer to the Emperor, that he might guide the human defenders, before he jumped into the melee.

[*]

Brother Magnus watched the planet approach on the main view-screen of the bridge of his ship, the Hammer of the Righteous. The blue-green planet showed up clearly, the image enhanced and magnified by a complex system of digital optics built into the display, even projecting readouts from the ships sensors in a green text which stood out plainly against the blackness of the void of space.

Other than the brightly lit view-screen, which took up most of the end wall, the bridge was just as dark and drearily functional as the rest of the ship. It consisted mostly of plain black metalwork, other than two long banks of consoles which stretched down the side walls and contained coloured buttons, lights, various switches and screens which displayed long lists of scrolling data about all systems ranging from shields and weapons all the way down to the waste management facilities; and at each console was a hunched over body typing away steadily at the long series of commands needed to keep the ship operating.

Only one other figure watched the view-screen; a giant of a man, a space marine whose power armour was a mix of yellow and silver apart from the huge red power fist attached to the end of his left arm. He was Captain of the 6th company, a position Magnus knew he had earned after rising quickly through the ranks through several impressive feats and years of good leadership.

"You're sure this is the planet?" The Captain asked with a deep gravey voice, one which contained much authority about it; the Captain enforced strict discipline and adherence to the Codex, and it was for this reason that he had impressed the others. It was also for this reason that he almost always wore his armour, even when there was no battle alert, for as far as he was concerned a space marine was always on alert for the heretic, the xeno and the traitor.

"Of course I'm sure." Magnus responded simply, "It was the third planet in the system, and our research into the reports showed that there was an ongoing conflict against the Orks; it fits perfectly with my information."

"Your vision," the Captain almost spat the word, "could fit with any one of thousand planets in this sector. We can't just go jumping off to one of them on a vague feeling… the Codex-"

"The Codex Astartes instructs us that there is no greater aim than to seek out and destroy traitors," Magnus interrupted, causing a scowl to cross the Captain's face. "As such we should do everything we can to verify suspicions of treachery; and these are no mere vague feelings of the type an Inquisitor may have, my powers as a psyker enhance my certainty. This _is_ the planet."

The Captain let out a snort of derisive laughter, causing Magnus to turn to look at him, "The last psyker I knew had his mind eaten by some foul demon from the warp. It drove him crazy; he would've killed my entire squad if I hadn't fired first." He gave Magnus a grim smile, "And don't worry. If you lose it when trying to use your power, I'll extend you the same courtesy."

Magnus knew not how to respond to such a comment; with the rank of Epistolary, he had gotten used to always having complete respect from everyone under his command, he hadn't expected the Captain to speak to him in such a way. He made a mental note to inform his masters that he believed this marine should remain in his current position for at least another decade, maybe more until he got over his distrust of psykers. Thankfully, he was saved the need to respond as an automated servitor voice came crackling over the bridge speakers.

"Auspex shows unidentified ships breaking orbit from sixth planet in system." The mechanical, deadpan voice crackled and at once the view-screen changed to show the new information; zooming out from the planet that was their destination and highlighting the group of ships by enclosing them in a green circle. "Eight vessels identified… bearing one two seven-"

"Servitor, suspend auditory tactical information." The Captain commanded; the voice fell quiet the moment the order had been given. "Engage tactical alert and identify targets." The Captain gave his orders absolutely calmly and the machine responded at once, the bridge lights dimming and being replaced by the emergency lights lining the walls and floor, which cast a disturbing red glow about the whole room.

"They must have been hiding on the other side of the sixth planet." Magnus stated the obvious; that was why they hadn't detected them. He looked closely at the data upon the view-screen and saw to his surprise that the group of ships was heading towards the third planet, the very one they had come for, and that not one of them had turned to face the Hammer of the Righteous. He wondered why that would be; but his question was answered almost instantly.

"IFF signals identified." The servitor's crackling deadpan voice filled the bridge once more, "Ships register as Imperial Navy Battlegroup seven-seven-five-dash-eight-three. Three vessels register as Emperor class battleships… four vessels register as Imperial Navy cruisers… One vessel registers as Apocalypse class battleship… further information unavailable… vessels are broadcasting Inquisitorial identification signal."

The voice fell silent once again and the Captain raised an eyebrow at Magnus. They were both thinking the same thing; what business did the Inquisition have here with an entire Navy Battlegroup?

* * *

_Not very long, but if my plans go to plan it shouldn't be so long before the next update... hopefully... fingers crossed._


	6. Chapter 5

_I found this chapter particularly nice to write, the ideas just seemed to flow so easily. And to think that I had previously thought about dropping this one... ha._

* * *

They fell left and right as Tarchus carved through them, his holy boltgun in one hand spat death at those who where out of reach of his other hand and the deadly energies contained within the ancient power fist. He swung it before him. The sheer momentum of the object alone was enough to smash bones and tenderise flesh whilst the machine spirits did their work and made what little armour the orks had meaningless against his attacks. He had cut a swathe through the tide already; a pile of corpses lay at his feet sufficient to raise him above the greenskins, fighting with such ferocity as to make some of the orks reconsider facing him. But there were still too many and as their friends barged in behind them, eager for the fight, the orks seemed to find new courage.

The moment he had joined the combat, Tarchus had lost track of his allies in the mass of green that surrounded him. He had gone instantly into battle mode and moved his weapons with well-practiced precision without conscious thought; he became nothing more than a machine. But now, as even he became aware of the innumerable enemy, he found his conscious returning and he was looking around for allies with every glance.

"All squads who are still standing, report in." He called down his vox link, aware that he was breathing heavily with the effort of holding back the green tide.

"Arillus here, with squad Ferox." A familiar grumbling tone answered, one for which Tarchus was more grateful than he was prepared to reveal. He waited for more, but there was only silence.

"Arillus, is that all that's left?" He couldn't keep the surprise from his voice, he hadn't expected them to lose so many and had hoped that at least some of the guardsmen would survive. He ducked a blow from a large, blunt cleaver instrument and calmly unloaded two bolts into the offending ork's face, dropping the creature instantly.

"We've got remnants of squads Alphaeus and Braccus and most of devastator squad Mion along with several squads of Imperial Guard." Arillus' response came eventually; Tarchus could just make out the shouts and gunfire from over the vox link and knew instantly why it had taken so long to respond.

"What's your position?"

"We're holding a building about 100 metres south of the printing works, the orks are assaulting from the three west facing walls." Tarchus knew exactly the building that Arillus meant, and he knew that it wasn't far from his position, if only he could get to it.

A bestial roar sounded from somewhere nearby and Tarchus turned to see an ork, one much larger than his counterparts, marching his way towards him, mashing any greenskin who dared obstruct his passage. As it approached Tarchus made out the details; the ork's skin was darker, and probably much thicker, than that of its fellows; it carried an axe of such size that even a space marine would have difficulty wielding it and an automatic weapon which sported three barrels; the big ork had covered most of his body in thick armour plates, some of which seemed to have been liberated from Imperial vehicles.

The ork bellowed out words which made no sense to Tarchus, but it was clear that they were orders to the other greenskins. Almost at once, the orks around him ceased their attacks and backed away; Tarchus didn't need the ork boss' words translating, they were clear, "_This one's mine._"

[*]

"Prepare to broadcast a message to the fleet, all channels." Magnus commanded, hearing the series of bleeps that announced the completion of his request.

He intended to demand the imperial soldiers to identify themselves and their orders and, if required, procure their assistance in purging the planet; but something stopped him. He knew not if it was his psychic prowess or just a gut feeling – or maybe the two were one and the same – that made him look to the right at that point to be confronted with the scowling face of 6th Company's Captain. He didn't need to be a psyker to discern the cause of the scowl; this was after all not his ship and he had just given an order where he had no right to.

He looked the Captain straight in the eyes without even a hint of apology; the Captain's scowl only served to pick out the scars on his face. Neither was it limited to his face, for every part of the Captain's body took up the scowl from his aggressive stance to the power fist, which seemed to crackle with energy more than usual. However, Brother Magnus did not find this in the least bit unnerving; having faced hordes of tyranid beasts, he was not remotely frightened of a single angry marine. Instead he made a slight gesture to the main monitor, instructing him to speak.

The Captain grudgingly took the request whilst maintaining his scowl; he may have been going to do it anyway, but he didn't like anyone giving out orders on his ship unless he had ordered them to do so.

"Imperial Fleet, identify yourselves." He barked it with such authority that made it a request that was hard to refuse; this was why he had been promoted so early, he felt most comfortable when in charge and making decisions.

"Vessel, identify yourself." The response was quick. The voice was a deadpan, electronic drone… a servitor's voice.

"Identify yourself first and let me speak with the commanding officer."

"I'm in charge here." A different voice responded, one that was all to calm and instantly filled Magnus with a sense of foreboding. "And I believe that whilst we are broadcasting an identification signal, you are not. So YOU will identify yourself first." The voice paused, waiting for a response. When none came, it spoke again. "I shouldn't need to remind you that you are severely outnumbered and outclassed."

Magnus and the Captain both shared the same feeling, a slow build up of rage. For an Imperial soldier to threaten the warriors of the Adeptus Astartes was tantamount to treason. However, the voice was right; they weren't broadcasting an ID signal. Not wanting to risk detection by hostile forces they had deactivated it; they had no prior information of any Imperial Navy fleets in the area.

"This is the Adeptus Astartes cruiser, Hammer of the Righteous, and I am Captain Barrabus, leader of the 6th Company of the Imperial Fists." He said it all slowly and deliberately, speaking each word with pride in his voice; determined to get across to this person just who they were dealing with.

"Is that so?" The voice responded simply, almost snidely.

"I DEMAND that you identify yourself!" The Captain roared, unable to completely control his outrage; such impertinence could not, would not stand. Magnus was certain, even over this distance, that the owner of the voice was smiling at his own ability to taunt the Marine.

"Very well then. I am Inquisitor Marek Burghausen of the Ordo Malleus." The voice was still as calm as it ever had been, and with good reason. The Space Marines could easily punish those of the Imperial Guard or Navy, but to deal with an Inquisitor was far more problematic; especially one with an entire battle group under his command. Magnus knew that the Inquisitor was probably taking immense pleasure from the whole situation, and found himself trying hard not to issue his own burst of outrage.

"And what is your mission here?" The Captain's voice had levelled out into its commanding tone again and he continued asking questions. Now that he had the initiative, he was determined to steer this conversation.

"My mission is the same as yours." The Inquisitor answered as though it were the most obvious thing in the galaxy. "I'm here to uphold the Imperium of our immortal emperor and cleanse this planet of the evil which infects its once holy ground."

This Inquisitor was definitely eloquent, he always seemed to take the right tone; he could have been giving a speech to a guard regiment and the Captain was certain that even the more reluctant soldiers would be ready to follow this man (and not just because they'd be shot otherwise). The Captain didn't like it though, the Inquisitor seemed very skilled at skirting the real issue and the voice echoed with distrust (Magnus felt the same thing, though many times stronger). However, the Captain still saw an excellent opportunity.

"We have forces engaged on the planet's surface." He said; trying his best negotiating voice, though Magnus had heard xeno lies that were more convincing. "With co-operation, I'm sure we can achieve both of our objectives."

"Oh, I'm afraid you misunderstand." Magnus was surprised by how sinister the Inquisitor's voice suddenly became; though he supposed it was just another useful weapon in an Inquisitor's armoury. "If I were in your position I'd arrange to have my units extracted immediately."

[*]

The Blade flew in out of nowhere. Tarchus just had the chance to move his arm out of the danger zone before the head of the immense axe sparked as it glanced against one of the stone blocks that had once made up the nearby buildings and were now serving well as improvised dragon's teeth. Not that they stopped the Ork boss from jumping atop one to bring his weapon down for another swing.

Tarchus managed to dodge this one as well, but it was another close call; the ork's size and thick armour belied its speed, it was only the sheer size and weight of the weapon which allowed Tarchus the chance to evade it at all. As the greenskin raised the weapon above its head for another attack, Tarchus raised his holy boltgun and fired a four round burst.

The report from the weapon at this range was deafening as the shells impacted in a vertical line against the ork's torso; detonating in succession and sending shrapnel into the boss' face. The ork recoiled, staggering a few steps back, surely that must have killed the beast.

No. Once the smoke cleared the points of impact on his opponent's armour became visible, and not one had managed to penetrate through the thick metal plates and into the ork's hide; the shrapnel had been likewise ineffective, the pieces too small to cause any real damage to the creature's tough skin.

Distracted momentarily, Tarchus had no time to evade the ork's next attack; his shots had not even caused it to lower its axe. He parried the blow quickly with his right hand. Pain shot through it. The momentum of the ork's weapons was such that it had simply smashed the bolter from his grip, twisting his hand and wrist severely. The holy weapon was thrown to the floor, a great gouge in its side, it would be lucky to ever fire again.

Tarchus thanked the emperor that he had at least managed to deflect the blow enough that it glanced harmlessly from his shoulder pad. He offered up a quick prayer to the machine spirit of the weapon as well, thanking it for its sacrifice before avoiding yet another blow sent his way.

The orks surrounding the combat between Tarchus and their boss were shouting deep, bestial chants that he could only assume were meant to encourage their favourite to win. They stood and watched despite the fact that the battle continued, Tarchus could hear the sounds of combat and gunfire from somewhere behind him and he knew why… they smelled blood. Tarchus knew that he had to get near to the ork in order to use the power fist against it, but it was fast and its weapon was long. There seemed to be no way through, and the other orks knew it.

But something caught his eye, something hanging from the belt of his opponent. It was a helmet, one that he recognised; yellow and bearing the mark of the Imperial Fists upon it. It was one of his squad, and there was a splash of blood around its rim.

He lost all awareness of his actions at that point and he moved automatically, not the smooth, calm movements that came from his training but aggressive movements that he had no control of.

He let out such a roar as to paralyse his foe as he launched himself forwards. The power fist fitted to his left arm smacked the ork's weapon to one side before it collided with the creature's face, one now completely and utterly dumbstruck. The fingers closed around the ork's head and began to relentlessly put pressure upon it; the skin tore, the skull cracked and began to cave in upon itself, the ork's teeth were reduced to powder by the crushing power of the fist… and Tarchus enjoyed every moment, every sensation as the head was reduced to nothing more than a mass of blood and tenderised flesh and the power fist was turned a deep red with the blood of his foe.

Once he had reached the limit of the crushing capability, Tarchus released his grip and watched the new corpse join the others that littered the floor.


	7. Chapter 6

_It happens annoyingly often that after uploading it, for some reason, the first sentence is repeated. It seems to be an error with however this site handles its documents; so, if anyone notices any other repeated sentences please mention them in your comments so I can fix them (I do give it a brief check beforehand, but it's possible that I miss things)._

_I'm not sure where Xenohunter's confusion has come from (but I wrote it, so it's always clearer to me anyway) but, to clarify, all of this is happening at the same time in the present day (whenever that might be). _

_Anyway, thank you for the reviews, and here is chapter 6._

* * *

The nearby greenskins had fallen silent, stunned by the suddenness of their boss' demise. Tarchus too was stilled by the shock of his own attack, his arm dropping to his side as he observed the blood; such a deep red as too be almost black and viscous as tar; pour slowly from the creature's body. Fortunately, his mind recovered faster than the orks and he quickly came to realise the impossibility of his new situation.

He was completely surrounded. In all directions there was a green mass of orks; flooding in from light vehicles that seemed to be ferrying wave after wave of orks over the city defences. Not only surrounded, but he knew not what lay between him and his allies and, armed only with a power fist, he knew that he could not fight through to them alone. The situation had gone from bad to worse. He had once been told by his now deceased captain that the worst situation was one in which the best hope was simply to sell your life as dearly as possible. Tarchus had never really listened; he could never see himself being killed, but right now it was the only option left.

A screeching whistle filled the air; bringing the orks back to their senses hard. Tarchus ducked instinctively as the shell detonated only a dozen metres from him; the explosion battering his eardrums and scattering pieces of greenskin across the ruins. Before either Tarchus or the orks could do anything more a second shell announced itself, its piercing squeal scattering the orks; but to no avail as the carpet of greenskins was such that made it impossible to miss and yet more orks were blasted out of this life.

The sudden attack caused absolute bedlam amongst the ork ranks, as the front units and those that had been hit tried desperately to escape the kill-zone only to find themselves running headfirst into their own reinforcements, fresh orks who had not the faintest idea what was happening. Fights broke out as the two groups collided and mixed; many orks quickly turning their weapons against their own kin in their frenzied attempts to both flee from and engage with the human forces.

Tarchus seized the opportunity to leave; forcing his way through the fleeing orks by beating them with both of his fists, barging them out of the way with one and causing crippling injuries with the other. He hadn't moved far when the vox crackled into life and he heard what must have been the best voice he'd heard all day.

"This is the Leman Russ battle tank, Blaze of Glory." The voice proclaimed in an excited, bloodthirsty tone. One which Tarchus liked very much, "We're immobilised but providing covering fire to all Imperial forces in this sub-sector. All Imperial forces should fall back to our position and re-establish a defensive line immediately. Let us be a rock upon which this warp-damned tide will break!"

[*]

Inquisitor Marek allowed himself to relax; leaning back in the rather comfortable chair that had once belonged to this vessel's captain, an experienced Imperial Navy officer who now stood by to take his orders. It always amused him to see 'mighty' officers used to autonomy and giving all the orders being reduced to nothing better than an aide whilst he took command of their troops and ships. He had all of this power at his command simply because he carried a seal which gave him unbelievable sway over all men and women… well, all those loyal to the Imperium anyway.

He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing them a brief respite from staring constantly at the bleak interior of this ship's bridge. He often wondered why the navy's warships could not have better interior design with grand columns, carpets and tapestries that would more suit the extravagantly carved hull; rather than an interior so bleak that the only colours were found on the status monitors. He was forcibly reminded of a cruiser he had once boarded that had been occupied by worshippers of the chaos god Slaanesh; the traitorous materials had of course been purged with the cleansing fires, but he couldn't help noticing that it was a much more pleasant place to be than before the crew had been turned.

These were not traitorous thoughts in themselves for, as an Inquisitor, it was his duty to look into such matters and attempt to learn how the enemy thought; to enable certain victory in later engagements. He had the power to do as he pleased regardless of the situation, he could even have taken some of the traitor's tapestries or ordered that the ship should be scuttled rather than attempting to reclaim it; and it was this unstoppable power that had brought him here. He had realised that he could used this power to return the Imperium to the glorious days of the Emperor, and thus he had set out to do exactly that.

"Excuse me, Inquisitor." The rather nervous voice of the ship's captain interrupted his musings, causing Marek to open his eyes. "The Space Marines have launched a pair of dropships towards the planet's surface."

"Really?" Marek responded lazily; he had expected them to do such a thing, would have complained if they hadn't made some attempt to reach the surface. It was all going as expected; the only undeterminable factor was how many marines those ships would leave with.

"Should we do something, sir?" The captain (Marek had never bothered trying to learn their names) ventured; the unfamiliarity evident in his voice as he spoke the last word.

"No, let them do as they please." Marek's response was just as lazy as before as he stretched his arms out wide. "Bring the fleet up to a combat alert and manoeuvre into bombardment positions. Let us begin what we came here for."

[*]

"It's good to see you, Tarchus." A familiar voice greeted him.

"Likewise, Arillus." He responded, upon the first sight of his battle brother in many long days.

He wasn't sure exactly how he had made it back here, only that it must be by the will of the Emperor that he had managed to survive thus far. The building they were in was thick-walled and tough; but even so, the roof and most of the floors had been taken out by concentrated shelling. The walls were lined with men. Many were guardsmen, but there was a good handful of surviving marines taking position alongside the soldiers; each person sheltering behind a remaining piece of wall or readying as many firing positions as they could. What looked like several squads, including the remaining devastators, had moved to the upper floors to establish fire points for what was left of the heavy weapons. Slumped against the wall close to him was a single, dishevelled looking man in filthy, tattered robes. From the staff and seals he carried he was clearly a sanctioned psyker, but he was long past his use; he simply rocked back and forth muttering to himself.

The ground floor was covered in the bodies of the dead and wounded, so much so that moving around was made almost impossible without stepping on someone. Tarchus already knew that the wounded were done for; they had only two exhausted medics to look after them, medics who had to resort to drastic measures caused by the lack of supplies. The others wouldn't last too long should the orks assault in force again, which they eventually would. They only thing holding back the tide was the steady beat played out by the weapons of the leman russ, but even those would fall silent soon.

"Pretty bad isn't it?" Arillus stated; Tarchus simply nodded. "What happened to your weapon?"

"Lost." He replied simply.

"Then take mine." And Arillus did something which immensely surprised him, by holding out his boltgun. Before Tarchus could refuse, Arillus interrupted him. "It's no good to me in this state."

Tarchus noticed it for the first time, Arillus' right arm had taken heavy damage; the armour had been removed and it hung limply by his side, issuing copious amounts of blood.

"How did it happen?" Tarchus asked; genuinely concerned, though unwilling to show it.

"A near miss from a greenskin missile launcher." The response was simple, conversational; as though it happened everyday. "But that's not important right now; what matters is that I can't wield this thing in one hand." Tarchus got the point, and reluctantly took his battle brother's boltgun. "I was always a better shot with a pistol anyway."

Tarchus was sure that Arillus was grinning under his helmet; not that he could actually tell, his psychic prowess had never been above average; but it was just like Arillus to make light of even the worst situations. As though hearing his thoughts, the leman russ' guns fell silent and the vox channel crackled into life.

"This is the Blaze of Glory," It was the same voice that had announced the vehicle's presence earlier, though this time it did not sound so enthusiastic. "And that was the last round; we're out of ammunition for our battle cannon."

Tarchus gave Arillus a quick nod, allowing him to speak to the tank crew. "This is battle brother Arillus," he said, quickly and confidently. "You've done all you can; fall back to our position immediately."

"Yes sir. The techpriests are going to remove the magazines from the heavy bolters and then we'll head over. This is the Blaze of Glory, signing out."

The vox fell silent again, and yet Tarchus' head filled with noise. The battle had reached its quietest point of the day and yet the noise in his head was so overwhelmingly loud as to send pain shooting through his skull. He tried to fight against it, but it was no use; it was as though his mind were being torn in two.

[*]

Arillus was the first to notice when the sergeant bent double, his face screwed up in agony. It didn't take long for him to find the cause either; though he was not a psyker, he was still more sensitive than most and could tell when power was flowing, and right now he could see it all flowing into Tarchus' head. He swung round to find the source, and was immediately rewarded.

The sanctioned psyker who had just moments ago been muttering to himself whilst hunched against the crumbled wall was now standing tall, his eyes glowing with energy and his mouth emitting high-pitched, maniacal laughter.

In a perfect display of the reactions that had kept him alive thus far, Arillus drew his pistol with his left hand, aimed at the psyker's head and pulled the trigger.

[*]

Tarchus' head cleared almost immediately, the pain withdrawing like a retreating army. He stood straight, determined not to show any sign that anything was wrong; the last thing he needed now was for the guardsmen's morale to break. As he did so he noticed Arillus standing with his pistol drawn and the corpse of the psyker added to the pile on the floor, blood trickling from his face. The whole situation became instantly clear.

"You didn't need to kill him." He said gruffly, retrieving the bolter that must have slipped from his hand. Arillus made no response; though that was probably better than getting some smart-arsed comment back.

"Attention, all imperial forces." The vox crackled once more into life; though this time the voice which came through it was deep and authoritative. "This is Captain Barrabus of the Imperial Fists 6th Company, currently aboard the cruiser Hammer of the Righteous. Any imperial forces respond."

Tarchus heard some cheers coming from the guardsmen, cheers well justified; an orbiting strike cruiser was like a gift from the Emperor himself. "This is Brother Sergeant Tarchus of the Imperial Fists 5th Company; it's nice to have good news for once."

"Calm down Sergeant." Captain Barrabus responded, his voice anything but friendly. "I'm the bearer of bad news. There's an Inquisitor in orbit with a whole battle group who is about to turn the surface of that planet into one flat, lifeless wasteland, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm sending in a couple of Thunderhawk dropships to evac you and your men, but they can't land at your current location. You've got to make it back to the Adeptus Arbites building so they can pick you up, and trust me; this inquisitor isn't the patient type."

"Yes, sir." He growled his response; the Emperor had clearly been testing them today. "How long do we have?"

"In my opinion? Not long enough."


	8. Chapter 7

_Right, this chapter has come about quicker than usual (less than a month) which I'm quite impressed about even if nobody else is. Thanks to those people who are reading this, I hope you're enjoying it so far and it isn't a complete waste of your time._

_What happened to the psyker will become apparent, although Tarchus has other things to worry about right now and yes, Inquisitor Marek Burghausen is a total git._

* * *

One thousand metres.

That was all, a mere kilometre separated them from their goal, but time was ticking fast. Tarchus was jogging at what he considered to be a slow pace, but they had to move at a speed that the Imperial Guardsmen could cope with. They had been moving for so long now that he was sure some of them would collapse before too long, but they had to keep going. It was their only chance of survival.

Nine hundred metres.

They moved in a column through the once proud streets, now filled with rubble and corpses, past buildings which had been battered by bullets and shells for many long months. The remaining space marines made the spearhead of the column, with some of them placed strategically down its length, it was their job to pierce the ranks of the orks when they met and force their way straight through. Behind them the guardsmen ran as fast as they could, using what weapons they could carry with them; and at the very back were three marines, one who had taken up the job of being the apothecary and had the grim duty of removing the gene seed from any of their fallen brothers. Though many marines had been felled today, their deaths would be in vain should their gene seed not be collected; it was by this method that the chapter lived on through the deaths of its members.

Eight hundred metres.

Renewed firing erupted from the ruins of a building ahead of them and a barrage of fire pelted the advancing column. However, the return fire was fierce as every soldier opened up and the orks were quickly silenced, and a well placed grenade caused the collapse of what remained of the wall behind which the xenos had hidden. Unfortunately the ork's volley, whilst inaccurate and undisciplined, managed to hit its mark and several of the guardsmen fell, the heavy shells of the ork guns punching through their armour and obliterating their flesh. Behind them Tarchus heard the shots as their sergeant dispatched the wounded, granting them the Emperor's mercy, for it was better to die honourably than to become a new experiment for one of the ork field medics.

Seven hundred metres.

They had left the wounded behind in the building, the guard medics too. With bravery that Tarchus thought was nothing short of extraordinary, they had volunteered to stay behind to ease the passage of their last patients; they felt that it was better for them to slip into the Emperor's arms quietly than to feel the hot barrel of a laspistol against their temples. They would poison them if necessary, before taking their own lives. Their sergeant had assured them that they would be placed in their regiment's book of honour, and Tarchus had made a mental note to himself that he would make the recommendation should the sergeant not survive.

Six hundred metres.

They ploughed their way through a group of greenskins that had been taken by surprise by their sudden appearance. Their holy bolters had cut down the foul creatures, leaving only tattered corpses and thick, almost black blood spilling across the street. They were slowed slightly as the tired men were forced to navigate this new obstacle, tripping over corpses and slipping on the blood. But it was not this that worried Tarchus, rather the fact the orks had been heading in the same direction that they were, if there was any resistance left in the building of the Adeptus Arbites then surely the orks would be swarming all over them.

Five hundred metres.

They passed the wreck of an Arbites enforcement vehicle, overturned in a side-street, the corpses of its operators thrown casually to one side. Another group of orks, technicians of some sort, were hard at work scavenging everything that they could from the wreck, pulling out wires and cutting off the armour plating. This group of greenskins barely reacted to the humans, and gave none of them a second look as they passed by; seemingly more interested in playing with the flashing lights than the crowd of enemy. Tarchus ordered his men to let them be, and allowed the guardsmen to dispatch them. Preoccupied or not, a xeno was still a xeno, but the marines were running low on ammunition and who knew what they would find ahead.

Four hundred metres.

They could see it. Their first glimpses of the Arbites headquarters as they rounded the last corner, and it was both an encouraging and a shocking sight. The vast defensive walls still stood, even though the once great spire that could have been seen from any part of the city had now fallen, cut down like a tree by some hideously huge weapon some months before; it had been the first shot in a costly conflict. But, what struck even the marines with fear were the waves of orks that surrounded the walls, firing their weapons, screaming and shouting, and attempting to erect siege ladders, it was impossible to see how they could penetrate that with their small numbers, but it had to be done.

Three hundred metres.

As they closed with the fortress, their spirits were raised further by the sight of weapons fire still coming from the walls, from desperate defenders who even now cast back the siege ladders as they were laden with orks, causing them to fall down upon their allies. Tarchus began to think that they may yet have hope, if the defenders of the walls could distract the greenskins, then the column which he led may just be able to run straight through the main gate where, inexplicably, the mass of orks was thin. If only they could find a way to communicate with the defenders, and let them know that they needed to open the gate.

Two hundred metres.

Emperor be praised! The guardsmen behind them let out and exhausted cheer, even Tarchus felt an urge to shout out (one which he quickly suppressed) as they saw the silhouettes of the dropships against the sky, the thunder of their engines was like beautiful music as the thunderhawk gunships swooped gracefully overhead. Their weapons pounded the orks that were close to swamping the walls, heavy cannons and bombs blasting huge holes into the green tide and sending limbs flying through the air.

One hundred metres.

They were so close, they couldn't fail now. Tarchus loaded the last magazine into his borrowed boltgun; it had served him well, Arillus knew how to look after his weapons. As they approached, there was another thunderous roar as the thunderhawks passed right overhead and fired their weapons at the fortress walls.

A vast explosion echoed through the sounds of battle as the large shells impacted with their target, a fireball ripped through the ranks of the orks and came close enough to their column that they were almost burnt alive. On the verge of cursing the pilots, Tarchus quickly realised what they had done; they had blasted down the main gates to allow his men access. However, the orks would pile into that gap as soon as they realised it was there. Time, which hadn't been on their side to begin with, suddenly took a nasty turn. They had to breach the gap, board the thunderhawks, take off and then successfully escape the coming firestorm before the orks had a chance to shoot them down. They couldn't afford to slow down now.

"Battle brothers!" Tarchus shouted, hoping to make himself heard over the din of the battle. "Soldiers of the Imperial Guard! The time is now. We must live for the glory of the Imperium or die in its name. Whatever happens, we are guaranteed a place with the Emperor. However, we shall not go quietly, we shall take down as many of those bastards as possible!" A cheer rose to this, at no other point in the future would Tarchus ever think of himself as a great leader. "Now, for glory and honour. CHARGE!"

And they pelted forwards at full speed, the guardsmen managing to keep up with the Astartes despite all they had been through so far, and shouting out a battle cry of such savagery as to stun the greenskins themselves. They would survive this. They had to.

[*]

The Inquisitor rose from the chair that he had found to be most comfortable, ignoring the irritated look that the captain tried to hide quickly. Perhaps he would execute this one; after all, if he found something to his disliking then it was his duty as an officer of the Imperial Navy to say something about it. Only a coward remains quiet and blindly listens to the orders his officer gives him, in the hope that should it ever cause trouble the blame will be placed entirely upon the officer and not the soldier. However, this was rarely ever the case, and anyone of any true experience should know that. Cowards are traitors and traitors are shot. However, this one was still useful to him in coordinating and speaking to his crew and senior officers. He had proved himself to be good at that at least.

"Captain," The Inquisitor said in his usual calm, sly voice as he pretended to be interested in the readings on one of the tactical displays. "Are we in position yet?"

"Almost, Inquisitor." The captain answered curtly, standing straight and with his chin held high. He was a perfect example of Imperial discipline; it was almost a shame to have to kill him. "We're still waiting for the rest of the battle group to take their positions."

Marek nodded his approval, though he knew what the captain actually wanted to say; that they had too few ships to perform a quick bombardment and that the extra delays were caused only by the additional time needed for them to form up into a very specific formation. He took his eyes from the tactical screen and instead looked over the shoulder of one of the crewman, whose job in combat would be to organise and dispatch the damage control teams; he enjoyed the smell of fear as he peered closely at the screen, it filled him with a sensation of power so real that he nearly felt he could hit the captain with it and watch a bruise manifest itself on his swollen cheek.

"And how long do you estimate?" He inquired, stepping away from the crewman and allowing him to breathe for a moment.

"It should only be a few minutes. I can't be any more specific."

He noted the defensive tone in the captain's response, in a voice that was filled with nervousness. It occurred to him to check whether the captain had ever been involved in an exercise like this before, but then instantly dismissed the idea; it would cause him no pleasure, as the captain would be rotting in the daemon realm soon enough. However, it was not time for that, it was time to get the formalities out of the way.

"Very well then." He said and quickly took the centre position on the bridge, standing before the captain's chair.

"I, Marek Burghausen," He announced imperiously; it was one of the parts of being an Inquisitor that he thoroughly enjoyed. "An esteemed member of the holy Order of the Inquisition and a daemon hunter of the Ordo Malleus, hereby declare this planet as Excommunicate Traitoris and sentence it and all its inhabitants to be cleansed by the holy fires of the Exterminatus, that their souls might be judged by the Emperor himself, for I am his instrument in his most glorious Imperium." He paused for a while, hanging his head in silence and allowing the words to resonate around the bridge with every crewman listening.

"Captain," He said at last; returning his voice to its normal tones and turning to look at the awestruck officer. "You may fire when ready."

* * *

_Slightly shorter than usual, but I thought it was a good moment to end it. However, I'm hoping to have the next chapter up even sooner. I'm in quite a good writing mood which I'm hoping will last as long as possible, though getting reviews does put me in a good mood (subtle hint)._


	9. Chapter 8

_Thanks for the reviews and, once again, sorry for the stall (it wasn't writer's block, I was busy with work and just had very little time left in the day). All of the stories that I am currently writing I will finish, I promised that to myself, it might take a while but I will finish them._

* * *

They hurled themselves forward with the last of their energy, firing erupting in all directions as they poured every last round into the closing greenskins, desperate to prevent the gap that would be their last salvation from closing. Gunfire of every kind flew past Tarchus, from the bright, fiery tracers of boltguns detonating against the greenskins and creating gaping maws in their flesh, to the incandescent scarlet streaks of lasbolts which cauterised wounds as they caused them, and even the presence of several heavier grenades lobbed in wild and deadly arcs into the mass, spreading death in the form of a cloud of shrapnel.

The impact upon the orks was devastating as they were charged from this unexpected quarter, the humans' resolve making their reckless advance all the more powerful and allowing them to close quickly towards the gate. However, the orks recovered themselves quickly (as orks are wont to do when they gather in such numbers) and soon they turned upon the new attackers, pressing in against the tide of fire with glee and excitement in their hideous red, glowing eyes.

A volley of weapons fire came form the ork horde, a thick tide of heavy shells and blasts from bizarre, unexplainable energy weapons. They had no time to duck, no space to dodge, no cover of any kind, their only protection was the poor accuracy of the firers and the ferocity of their own return volleys. But even so, Tarchus was aware that men and marines had begun to fall, blasted apart by the crude guns or melted by the energy weapons, wounded or dead it did not matter; for the only Emperor's Mercy would come if their arm could still work and still held a weapon. None could care for the wounded anymore; Tarchus could not even tell if the Apothecary was still standing, all they could hope for would be if they reached the gate. However, with each gun lost, their only protection weakened.

Tarchus redoubled his efforts, pushing himself onwards, even though the orks had reached arm's length. The greenskins preferred close combat to shooting matches, and they were built for it, but so was he. He struck out with power fist and bolter alike, his last magazine empty it now only served as a heavy and effective club. His swings were timed with skill that could only have been learned over many decades of combat. He would strike one ork down with a mighty blow from his bolter and when the next rose, the mystical energies in his power fist would reduce their flesh to pulp and grind their bones to powder. It was a pattern that he could carry out for hours… and it certainly felt like it.

He was unaware. Unaware of anything around him. Unaware of the noise of the battle that raged on about him as humans and greenskins fought to the very last in a desperate struggle for survival. He had lost all awareness of his allies, he knew not how many still stood, he knew not how many littered the battlefield with their corpses, he didn't even know if their was anyone still following in his wake, as he carved his own path through the xenos.

He was aware, however, of the lack of support fire from the walls of the fortress. He was also acutely aware of the lack of any weapons fire or engine noise from the Thunderhawks. He was also aware of the orks. He saw every last filthy xeno as it appeared before him, and he placed all of his focus into smashing each and every one aside, into destroying them utterly. He enjoyed the satisfaction it brought, lessened to no extent by each kill, to see the orks reduced to nothing but bloody carcasses upon the floor… but it stopped.

He came to a halt, abruptly. There were no more orks ahead. He was so stunned by the sudden lack of enemies that it dawned very slowly upon him… he had passed the gate. Before him stood not the curtain walls but the lower defensive fortifications of the once proud Arbites spire itself, a place (in normal circumstances) seen only by the unluckiest of the ordinary citizens. And in the courtyard that stretched out before him sat the two Thunderhawks, their idling engines kicking up spiralling columns of dust and their front boarding ramps open in a welcoming manner, and before them were squads of yellow armoured space marines, their leader beckoning frantically to the dazed sergeant, an urgent reminder that they should leave.

So, once more, he ran.

[*]

"First salvo ready to fire, awaiting reports from other ships." The Captain sounded nervous as he made his report, and with good reason, Marek was not known for being a patient man.

"Captain?" The Inquisitor spoke softly, in a manner which still managed to carry the sense of a vast amount of authority despite the almost casual tone.

"Yes, sir?" The Captain turned from one of the small display screens that he had been hunched over for several minutes and looked at him straight. Marek could see the fear burning in the officer's eyes, could almost sense the battle that went on inside his head between the part of him that knew his duty and the human part that was afraid to die. Marek knew which side would win that battle, and he knew that he would kill this man when the time came. He had always known.

"Captain, target our first salvo onto the main city region, try and hit the Adeptus Arbites tower if you can." The moment he said it he saw the recognition in the officer's eyes and knew exactly what jumped to the front of his mind.

"Sir?"

"The shot which brought about the start of this war, Captain, was fired upon the Arbites tower, and demolished half of it. I only think it is fitting if the shot which brings about the end of this war were to do the same." He explained patiently, lying with well-practiced ease, one which none but a powerful psyker would be able to see through.

"Yes sir."

The Captain turned back to his screen whilst Marek leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, enjoying the way his other senses were heightened by his loss of sight. And a short moment later he felt the entire ship vibrate from the recoil of dozens of heavy guns; guns which fired a multitude of shells and missiles down onto the planet below, to lay waste to all that lay thereon.

[*]

The planet burned. As thousands of shells and missiles detonated upon its surface, the entire planet burned. Nuclear warheads hit first, wiping the surface of the planet clean, vaporising people and structures alike, and blasting what remained with the force of tens of thousands of conventional bombs. Some dug into the ground and detonated there, causing earthquakes of such ferocity as to rend the ground apart and change the landscape permanently. They were followed closely in by the incendiary missiles, detonating above the surface and spreading burning promethium across the planet's surface, such that every square metre of ground was set alight, and everything untouched by the first salvo burst into roaring flames hotter than plasma and which would feed like a ravenous beast upon anything that was left standing. Last were the virus bombs, detonated high in the atmosphere where the resilient plague would be carried around the world by the winds and dropped upon the surface. This, combined with the radioactive dust that was even now being spread into the atmosphere by the raging fires, would ensure that anything hidden away such as to survive the initial onslaught would die soon enough and would render to planet uninhabitable for many centuries.

Tarchus watched as it happened. Each detonation was a burst of light upon the planet, and as more impacted the surface became incandescent, burning with the energy and ferocity of a small star. Everything upon the surface would be destroyed; houses and fortresses, plants and animals. Friend and foe alike, all would be cleansed by the terror that was the final weapon of the Imperium.

He viewed the carnage safe inside the bleak, black interior of the Thunderhawk that had been sent to retrieve them. It had been a narrow escape as the pilots, with impressive skill, had evaded the incoming weapons fire from both the orks and the Imperial Navy, and navigated their passengers back towards their home. However, the cost had been high. The transport deck was filled with men and marines alike; many wounded, some mortally. Every available seat had someone in it, whether it be an exhausted guardsman or marine, whilst the floor was littered with the wounded and dead. Those still capable of moving, an apothecary and several medics patrolled the deck and visited each of the wounded in turn, doing their best for those that could be saved and sending the others into the graceful arms of the Emperor.

He wondered briefly if Arillus had made it, or the Imperial Guard sergeant that had held his duty through it all. But it didn't matter, the loss of such people would have little effect on him, as a soldier losses were simply a fact of life. But what hit him hardest of all was the sight of that planet, the visible surface quickly being obscured by vast, thick black clouds. He knew that at some point, too many years ago to count, that planet had been his home, and whilst he could not remember anything from those years he was still tied to it in some inexplicable way and its loss cut him deeper than that of any soldier or battle brother.

"Sergeant?"

Tarchus turned to see a marine standing behind him, his yellow armour was clean and fresh and a bolt pistol and chainsword were holstered at his belt. He was clearly one of the marines who had come with the thunderhawk to evacuate them, his armour unaffected by months of hard fighting.

"Yes?" He responded simply, allowing himself to growl the word as the marine saluted formally. He wasn't in the mood for such formalities.

"Brother Minas, 6th Company, 1st Devastator squad. We helped hold the thunderhawks whilst you retreated." Minas said this all quite cheerfully, and paused expectantly. Tarchus didn't bother to respond, everything he had just been told he had already ascertained from the insignia on the marine's shoulder pads, and his name was useless information.

"Uh… yes." Minas continued after a short moment, silent save for the cries of the wounded, though this time his voice was a little less certain. "You're Brother Sergeant Tarchus of 5th Company, 3rd Tactical Squad aren't you?"

"Yes." He growled again. This marine must be much younger and much less experienced than he was, otherwise he wouldn't have even bothered asking.

"Well, it seems you're the highest ranking surviving member so I've been ordered to take you to the bridge once we reach the Hammer of the Righteous. It seems that the Captain wants to debrief quickly."

"Good. Is that all?"

"Uh… yes."

Tarchus turned back to the view of the planet, now almost completely concealed in clouds of smoke. The view was made ever more eerie by the way the light from the fires permeated the thinner cloud levels, giving large patches a strange red glow. The planet grew smaller as the thunderhawk travelled outwards, towards the cruiser that was still waiting some distance away, and Tarchus could now see the fleet which had caused the devastation. He wondered which ship the Inquisitor who had called the order for the Exterminatus was on. He would like to meet him. At this thought he flexed the fingers of his power fist, enjoying the feel of the arcane energies which ran through it almost in response to his thoughts. Yes, he would surely like to meet him.


End file.
